The Boy with the Hidden Name

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The
Boy

wiTh The

Hidden

name

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The
Boy

wiTh The

Hidden

name

s k y l a r d o r s e t

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Copyright © 2014 by Skylar Dorset

Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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XX 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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For Megan and Caitlin, who bring

joy and laughter into my life.

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Y ou don’t understand, miss,” says a little man in an

old- fashioned bowler hat who is crawling out from

underneath the bench I’m sitting on. “We just really need

the book.”

To say that I am annoyed is to put it mildly. All I want to

do is sit and eat my ice cream cone, and instead I’m getting

stalked by supernatural creatures who keep
literally
crawling out of the woodwork. I mean that: the other day, a carving

on a balustrade at Trinity Church started talking to me. We

were there on a field trip, and it was difficult to hide.

This is what happens when you find out you are half faerie

princess and half ogre and then try to pretend it never hap-

pened and go back to leading a normal life.

“She doesn’t have the book,” Kelsey tells the little man,

who is now sprawled on his back on Boston Common, legs

still hidden under the bench. “How many times do we have

to keep telling you? She
doesn’t have the book
.”

The man scowls. “She
stole
the book.”

“No, I didn’t,” I snap. “I didn’t steal the book. Will Blaxton

and Benedict Le Fay stole the book. I just happened to
be

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there.” And then I wince at my slip. I have to stop giving up

the names of people I care about. There’s power in a name.

The man points at me. “Will Blaxton is always trying to

steal books. This is nothing new. He only succeeded because

he has
you
now.”

I bristle. “He doesn’t ‘have’ me. And it was Ben. Ben made

the difference.”

“Well, where’s Ben then?” asks the man politely.

The question of the hour, day, week. And if I knew the

answer to it, I’d…well, I don’t know what I’d do, because I’m

angry at Ben for abandoning me on Boston Common after

promising never to leave me, all so he could go in search of

the missing mother who might or might not be someone we

can trust. I know a lot about missing mothers who might be

incredibly untrustworthy, since mine is the same way. Not

that Ben listened to me about that.

“I have no idea where he is,” I snap. “He’s a magical faerie

who can jump effortlessly between worlds and into enchant-

ments. How am I supposed to have any idea where he went?

And I don’t know where Will is, although you ought to try

Salem. That’s where I was always able to find him. And I

don’t know where the book is. I’m just trying to eat my ice

cream and complain about unreliable faerie quasi- boyfriends

like a
normal
teenager
.”

The man frowns at me, his eyes narrow in displeasure.

“You’re not a normal teenager. You’re the fay of the autumnal

equinox. You’re
trouble
.”

2

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The Boy wiTh The hidden name

Don’t I know it
, I think.

The man burrows his way into the ground beneath our feet.

Kelsey, because she’s a good best friend who doesn’t let her-

self be fazed when supernatural creatures appear and disap-

pear all around us, licks her ice cream cone and says, “They’re

persistent, aren’t they?”

x

“Here’s what I think,” Kelsey says the next day at school.

“That Emerson makes no sense?”

“That we should celebrate your birthday.” Kelsey looks like

she is bouncing with excitement over this.

I stare at her. “Celebrate my birthday? Now? But it’s not

really my birthday anymore.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but have you ever celebrated

your birthday before?”

“No,” I admit.

“So then I think we should celebrate it.”

“My birthday triggered the dissolution of the enchant-

ment that had kept me hidden from evil faeries,” I point out.

“Doesn’t really seem like something to celebrate.”

“I think we should do something totally normal,” Kelsey

says as if she didn’t hear me at all.

“Like what?” I sigh, resigned, because I don’t even know

what normal people do. I fail at being normal, and it’s

so frustrating.

3

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“I don’t know. How about a movie?”

A movie. I am astonished by how normal a movie seems.

And so simple. Like being normal can really be
that
simple.

“A movie could be fun,” I say, because it sounds almost seduc-

tively indulgent to do this really normal, simple thing.

“Great.” Kelsey beams at me, pleased with herself. “What

do you want to see?”

I have no idea what’s out. “Flip a coin?” I suggest.

“Great idea, if we had a coin,” Kelsey says with a grin.

“Oh, I’ve got a coin.” I dig my hand into my pocket, pull-

ing out a dime. “Picked it up this morning on the way to— ”

I cut myself off, looking at the coin in my hand and thinking

of how I picked it up this morning, for no reason, so that

it could come in handy at this point. All of the normality

comes tumbling down around my ears. How can I pretend

to be normal when I do things like this?

Kelsey takes the dime out of my hand, leans forward, and

puts it on the empty desk off to the side. And then she says,

“No coin toss. We’ll do eenie- meenie- minie- moe when we

get to the theater.”

x

I am walking through Boston Common at dusk on my way

to meet Kelsey at the theater when another little man in a

bowler hat falls into step beside me. Why are there suddenly

so many little men in bowler hats in Boston?

4

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The Boy wiTh The hidden name

“About the book,” the man says.

“For the last time,” I grit out, frustrated, “I
do
not
have
the book.”

“But you do have a black button, do you not?”

I do. And I hate that I do. I grabbed it the other day on

my way through the Common, where it had fallen under

a bench.

I don’t say anything, but he looks at me meaningfully

because clearly he knows that I have a button.

“Exactly,” he says, as if it proves I am so special that I must

have the book. And then he holds up his sleeve cuff, which is

quite obviously missing a little black button.

Again with my stupid pack- rat tendencies. I walk on, abso-

lutely refusing to give the little man the satisfaction of getting his button back.

Kelsey is waiting for me at the movie theater, and she

notices immediately that I’m irritated.

“What’s wrong?” she asks me.

“The usual,” I tell her and try to shake it off. “Let’s not talk about it. Let’s just be normal and go to a movie.”

We do eenie- meenie- minie- moe as planned and end up

with a random romantic comedy. Kelsey orders popcorn and

soda. I don’t feel like popcorn, so I stand a short distance

away, playing with a napkin that was left on the counter.

When Kelsey’s ready, I go to crumple it into my pocket and

then pause, realizing what I’m doing, and deliberately leave it

on the counter exactly where I found it.

5

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Which means, of course, that when we get settled in our

seats, Kelsey promptly spills soda on herself.

“Damn it. I wish I had a napkin,” she complains.

I say nothing.

6

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w hen the past few days of your life involve escap-

ing from a faerie prison, stealing a magical book of

power from the Boston Public Library, and being abandoned

by the slippery faerie you’ve been inconveniently in love

with for most of your life, getting ready for school actually

starts to seem adventurous. Doing what would be normal for

other people becomes a change of pace for you that is weirdly

exciting. I’m being stalked by supernatural creatures. I can’t

even take the subway anymore, I feel like I’m so closely and

viciously watched. Pretending that I’m just a normal teenager

who goes to school is a fun bit of play- acting for me.

I choose an outfit with care and do my makeup to accentu-

ate my light blue eyes and brush my long white- blond hair

until it gleams almost silver in the sunlight slanting through

our lavender windowpanes. And then I look at the result.

Yes
, I think. I look absolutely put together and on top of things and not at all like I’m falling apart and heartbroken

and refusing to acknowledge my destiny of leading some

faerie
coup
d’état
.

I take a deep breath and walk out of my bedroom— stepping

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over the enchanted sweatshirt Ben gave me that I’ve left

crumpled on my bedroom floor— and down the stairs. The

grandfather clock on the landing chimes 2:15. Which is

not at all the actual human time, but the grandfather clock

doesn’t keep that sort of time.

My aunts, True and Virtue, are knitting, working on the

same enormous pair of socks they have been steadily working